


Without Reserve

by The_Plot_Bunny_Whisperer



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Gen, Light Angst, hints of PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-11 08:33:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7884187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Plot_Bunny_Whisperer/pseuds/The_Plot_Bunny_Whisperer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kobayashi Hari, newly of Namimori, is a simple man with simple needs who'd really rather be left alone. Unfortunately for him, no one ever listens.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>[For the first time since the end of the war, he laughs – loud and bright, and without reserve.</i></p><p>  <i>And then, as he has always done, he does exactly as Hermione tells him to do.]</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a one-shot to help with my writer's block. Unedited. I wrote this while having been awake for nearly 48 hrs so there's bound to be mistakes. I can't brain.
> 
> One shot for now, might be continued.

Less than two weeks into his job as tutor for the Vongola Decimo-to-be, Reborn finds himself in an unusual situation – that of being frustrated due to a lack of information. (He wasn’t brooding. Anyone who said otherwise would be shot.) What made it worse was that he could not place the blame on CEDEF, who supplied the information, as it was more than likely they had not even been aware of the lack. This was only further supported by the deplorable failure of all of his spying techniques; even his bugs can’t get past whatever protections were employed by his target.

Said target just happened to be the Sawada’s neighbor, Kobayashi Hari, who lives in the house directly behind his new student.

If not for an offhand mention by Nana, Reborn would likely have never paid any particular attention to this one person, having already written off all of the other neighbors within a two kilometer radius as being of least concern. What draws his attention, however, and places this one on his radar was that until Nana had packed up the leftovers from lunch his first weekend in the house and cheerfully stated that she was going to “run around the corner and drop this off for Hari-kun~! That boy, always too busy to remember to eat~,” Reborn hadn’t even realized there was someone living in that house.

It was as though the mere mention of the name had lifted a fog in his mind he hadn’t even known existed. It was suspicious. And annoying.

Reborn had spent several days in reconnaissance scouting the neighborhood and surrounding town before slipping his flyer into the Sawada mailbox. Until that moment he couldn’t recall even a single mention of this Kobayashi Hari. With the fog now lifted, he begins to recall snatches of conversations and tiny nuggets of information about the “polite and helpful though somewhat distant Kobayashi-san.” Information that his mind had recorded, labeled ‘unimportant,’ and then promptly forgot about.

It was entirely unlike him to ignore so obvious a threat. A person who could remain so invisible to his senses, especially being so close to him and what he was duty bound to protect, that could apparently influence even _his_ mind _had_ to be a threat. It was one he refuses to remain ignorant of.

Which was why he was so incredibly _frustrated_. Setting his bugs to spy on the house for him had been a futile endeavor; they either reported that there was nothing there of notice or came back confused and uncertain of what they were supposed to be doing. His second attempt, using cameras, was a complete failure from the start. Most of them stopped working within hours; the lenses wouldn’t focus, the batteries would die, and in one notable case, went up in flames from internal shortages caused by faulty wiring. Not even spying on the house in person while Tsuna was busy at school worked. Either he would see nothing or something would distract him and make him leave only to realize minutes later than he had been tricked somehow.

It was _infuriating_. If Reborn didn’t know better, he’d say that Kobayashi Hari was a ghost.

If he hadn’t been so irritated already because of this information gap and his failures to fill it, he might have gone a bit easier on the annoyance that was the Bovino brat. Unfortunately, the little cow nuisance had caught him shortly after yet another failed attempt to plant a spy (by way of a beetle hiding in Nana’s apron pocket as she made another trip to Kobayashi’s house. It had returned with exactly nothing to report.) The assassination attempts did nothing but further piss him off, so instead of simply deflecting the attacks he returned them twofold.

(In hindsight, he would be thankful for his overreaction.)

Several explosions later, the cow is crying in the corner, singed, dirty, and still smoking from the detonations. Tsuna is waffling between trying to console the child and stammering attempts to scold the unrepentant Reborn, who either ignores or shoots at him in return. It is within the chaos that there is a barely audible thump; a form landing on the sill of the open window, ruffling the curtains and bringing a sudden halt to the activity in the room.

Lambo’s wailing abruptly silences, startled by the arrival of the person now crouched in the window. The toddler hiccoughs, drying his teary, snotty face with a cloth-covered fist, lips pursed in a trembling pout. Tsuna jumps, turning sharply and tripping over himself, landing in a graceless pile on the floor. Upon sighting his new guest, he cringes, looking at once sheepish and guilty.

Reborn studies the newcomer with sharp eyes. He is a young man in his late teens, possibly early twenties. Clearly a foreigner, with peach-pale skin darkening slowly from the sun and rounded eyes; American, or European perhaps. Despite the lanky body half hidden by the loose-fitting but clearly tailored clothing, Reborn can see a subtle definition of muscles that prove him to be stronger than he appears.

Hooded green eyes, partially obscured by a messy mop of dark hair and bruised from lack of sleep, survey him just as intently before taking in the room in a single sweep with a strangely piercing stare. His thin lips are curled slightly downward, brows pinched in obvious annoyance. His fingers tap a halfhearted rhythm against the side of the frame, where they were clutched for purchase as he thinks. Finally, he speaks, peering down at the sniffling would-be assassin. There was a hint of an accent. (European; likely British, Reborn decides with no little satisfaction.)

“Hey. Brat.”

Lambo’s face scrunches, chubby cheeks puffing in indignation at the address. “Lambo-san is not a brat,” he mutters sullenly, glaring at interloper with watery eyes. The teen ignores him.

“Cool it with the grenades, would you?” His words are calm, slow, almost calculatedly lazy. His eyes narrow just a bit more into a soft glare with just a hint of darkness; subconsciously, Reborn perks up, recognizing something within the contrasting gaze. “I was trying to nap.” Lambo flinches from the subtly scolding, almost parental tone, crossing his arms and turning his face in a huff. He sniffles again and mumbles something, but not even Reborn’s sharp hearing can make out what he says.

Tsuna shrinks a little as the jade glare turns in his direction, hunching into himself. The eyes narrow even further and, to Reborn’s carefully hidden surprise, Tsuna seems to check himself, drawing a quick breath and firming his back, eyes up and head high. The teen smirks in approval, slipping completely into the room and falling (in a graceful mockery of Tsuna’s earlier tumble) into a cross-legged slump below the window, yawning as he goes.

“Is there a reason for all the noise, or did you just decide you wanted to celebrate Tanabata a month early?” However irreverent his words are, there’s something knowing in his gaze; something old and weary and _wary_. Reborn knows, as sudden as a lightning strike, that this is not a man to cross.

It doesn’t stop him from trying.

Leon clicks, and half-lidded jade eyes look past the gun pointed at his head into his own shadowed onyx orbs. Tsuna lets out something like a half strangled shriek, but the older teen looks simply… amused. Reborn finds it even more annoying than his failed spying attempts.

“Who are you?” Reborn demands.

Instead of answering, the teen tilts his head and slides his eyes to the side. “Tsuna, that little one looks like he desperately needs a bath. Could you take him down to Nana-san? Maybe get him a snack while you’re at it.” Despite that it’s worded as a request, it is very much an order. Tsuna’s eyes waver between his guest and his tutor as he hesitates. If Reborn is reading him correctly (which of course he is) Tsuna seems almost… protective. He clearly doesn’t want to leave the two of them alone in the same room – and it certainly isn’t Reborn he’s worried for.

“Alright, Hari-san.” Lambo doesn’t protest when Tsuna picks him up, silenced by the tension in the room. “I’ll bring your usual up in a minute,” is the last thing he says as he shuts the door behind him.

Reborn is glad to have his suspicions confirmed; glad to finally be able to put a face to the name that has haunted him for almost a week. Still, neither his hand nor his gun wavers with the confirmation. Kobayashi Hari has been a constant aggravation to him since the lifting of whatever geas he’d been under since his arrival in Namimori, and he _will_ get his answers, one way or another.

—•—

When the ceremonies are over and the following party has finally wound down, the only thing Harry can feel is relief. Thoughts of the future still leave him uncertain and somewhat terrified, but for now he can relax. The future will come all too soon; he may as well enjoy what little time to himself he has left before his attention is demanded once again by the public or the Ministry or everyone all at once.

Physically and emotionally exhausted, he allows Kreacher to shoo him away so the old elf could clean the parlor of Number Twelve, aided by a much improved Winky. He finds himself, once again, contemplating her zest for life even as she ushers him up the stairs, fretting and clucking her disapproval over his state of weariness. One of the best decisions he made after the war (likely the only one, he muses bitterly) was binding Winky as a second elf. Hermione had thrown a stink and the two had had a massive row over it, but eventually even she could tell that his snap decision had given the disgraced elf new life.

He envies her for that. This little elf has found purpose in a world where every day he feels more and more like he is drowning by inches. He banishes the thought immediately, unwilling to begrudge her a happiness she has been long deserving of.

He stumbles into bed, half asleep already. He acknowledges Winky’s help in getting his boots off, waving her away when she lingers, clearly wanting to make sure he’s abed properly. She pops away to get on with whatever it is she does when she isn’t busy fussing over him, but with the silence and in the darkness comes his worries and regrets, keeping him just on the precipice of sleep without allowing him to fall into slumber.

It’s the silence that bothers him the most. Even as he desired his solitude, the sounds of his sleeping dorm mates was a stark and needed reminder that he was not alone, however much of a lie it truly was. Here, in this house, he truly is alone, or near enough to count. The spells within his walls blocks out even the sounds of his elves as they go about their business, taking from him that small comfort. He is alone with his thoughts and that, as he has learned, is never a good thing.

The world itself drowns him by day, but it is the memories that come to him in the dark that are truly suffocating. He is haunted by the faces of his failures, of those he was too weak or too slow or too unknowledgeable to save. He is lauded as a hero by all but those who were on the losing side of the war, but for all that he has won the right to finally live, he feels as though he could die tomorrow and that would be his only true accomplishment.

His weighted mind finally drags him into an uneasy sleep. He tosses and turns throughout the night, and only a few hours pass before he is jolted awake again, a strangled name clogging in his throat. He is unsure which one it is this time, but it doesn’t really matter. Eventually, they all take their turn like an ouroboros made of words, biting its tail in an endless cycle. He doesn’t need a clock to tell him it’s much too early for him to be awake – the dark sky outside his window is answer enough – but he knows he won’t be getting any more sleep that night.

A quick shower washes away some of the grogginess that still clings to him and in short order he is ensconced in a thickly padded chair in the study, a heavy tome (light reading by Hermione’s standards) in his lap. It could be minutes or it could be hours before he is drawn out of his reading by the clinking of china and the smell of tea and toast. Winky stares at him reproachfully until he takes his first bite.

“Master Harry not be’s sleeping,” she accuses, giving another pointed look at his breakfast. “He be reading when he should be in bed. He be _worrying_ his poor elveses, he is.” He is both glad for and rues the day she learned to speak her mind. Glad, because it only proves that she has recovered from her mistreatment and depression; rues because she scolds better than Molly Weasley in a full snit, without having to raise her voice even a little to get him to feel guilty.

“I’m sorry,” he says contritely, finishing the slice of toast under her watchful eye. “It was too quiet.”

She nods, accepting if not fully satisfied. “Will Master be wanting his letters, then?” she asks, clearing away the empty dish with a snap of her fingers and pressing a handkerchief into his hands.

“Letters?” He dips a corner of the cloth into his tea, meticulously wiping the jam from his fingers as he glances at the clock. It’s barely past four in the morning; he shouldn’t have letters _yet_. His graduation had only been the day before.

“King Minister and Professy Headmistress leave letters last night for Master. They is saying he should be reading them when he is wanting to.” She pours him another cup of tea, fiddling with the arrangement on the service tray in a way that tells him she is reluctant to continue the conversation. Or rather, it is that she wants him to rest more instead of burdening him with work. He feels a rush of stark affection for her and his fond smile makes her fidget in embarrassment.

“I’ll take them,” he says, feeling rather reluctant himself. “I might as well get it over with.” She nods and grudgingly hands him the two thick envelopes before popping away again.

He knows without looking what they contain. His final months of schooling had been filled with more politics than learning. While he knows Kingsley and Professor McGonagall had meant well, their expectant looks and not-quite subtle remarks about his career choices had only placed more pressure on shoulders already weighed down with uncertainty. If he’s honest with himself, he no longer desires to be an Auror; he’s sick of fighting, of hunting mysteries that hold dark secrets. Neither does he wish to be an educator, for all that he had enjoyed his time teaching the DA. He’s tired, and it is a bone-deep weariness that shakes him at his core.

There are days when he wishes he had never left his cupboard. That he yearns for the simple days of being a child butler instead of a nephew. Those days are gone now, but they will always linger within him. However much he tries to hide it, to fight it, to run from it, he will never escape that part of him. He will always be the freak under the stairs; the mistake that no one wanted.

If he had his choice, he would leave for some place far away and never look back. Unfortunately, his choices had never truly been his own.

—

He puts off answering the letters for weeks. The envelopes sit on his desk in his study, creased and rumpled from his many times opening and reading them. Ron and Hermione stop by often during that time, looking harried and stressed as the days go by. If Ron has noticed them, he ignores it, instead talking about his family and life at the Burrow, of the reopening of the joke shop. He mentions Ginny a few times, but it’s halfhearted at best and the subject is dropped quickly.

Hermione looks at them each time, her mouth opening as if to say something, to ask about it, before she changes her mind and speaks of something else. She talks of her travel plans to Australia instead, of how she intends to begin searching for her parents; whispers her fear of not finding them or of finding them and having them hate her for what she did. She talks of wedding plans, which is being pushed back until she has that closure, and fills the air with mindless chatter of colors and seating arrangements and decorations. She, too, brings up Ginny, but it’s more hesitant and questing and she drops it reluctantly when he sours on the topic.

Their presence in and out of his life feels fleeting; ephemeral. He knows this is partly his fault. He has not tried very hard to reach out to them, mired in his own self-doubt and unwilling to burden them when they are already stretched so thin. As the days pass and their departure date draws near, he feels as though he is losing something that he can never regain once it’s gone. He doesn’t quite know how to keep it from happening, but he doesn’t exactly try either.

Their last day in Britain sees him leaving Grimmauld Place for the first time in ages. Molly greets him with an exuberant smile and gently rebukes him for staying away at the same time as she pushes an overfull plate into his hands. Arthur shakes his hand in welcome and gives him a hearty clap on the back before he is called away by another arrival. He sees Ginny in and out of the corner of his eyes, but as she avoids him just as carefully as he avoids her, surprisingly he feels not guilt or pain from this, but relief.

The Burrow is packed with all of the remaining Weasleys and their extended friends, and despite the somber cast to the day, there is laughter and happiness and plenty of good cheer. It feels less like a goodbye than it should; less an ending and more of a beginning.

As the day winds down and the departing couple get ready to activate their portkey, first Ron and then Hermione throw their arms tightly around his shoulders. There is a stark sadness in their eyes as if they have just realized what he has noticed for weeks. The clock is winding down and yet they linger while the remaining partygoers politely give them their space.

Eventually, they can no longer put it off. Hermione throws her arms around him one last time and whispers something in his ear. With a tearful smile, she pulls back and they are gone before he can even think to respond.

Slowly, he smiles. He feels inexplicably lighter than he has in months, as though he could power a thousand Patronus or fight Voldemort all over again without breaking a sweat. For the first time since the end of the war, he laughs – loud and bright, and without reserve.

And then, as he has always done, he does exactly as Hermione tells him to do.

—

_“It’s okay to live for yourself, Harry. Hang your perceived duties and responsibilities. You’re free now, and it’s time you did something for your own happiness instead of everyone else’s. No matter what, we will always love you. So stop merely surviving, you silly man; go **live**.” _


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't really planning to post more of this, but I had some inspiration (partially due to kit123; your comment made me laugh and got me a few "wtf is wrong with you this time?" looks) and once I got some sleep (I _do not_ recommend going 43 hours without sleep - _really_ ) I decided that I couldn't leave it so unresolved. There might (MIGHT) be one more after this. Maybe two. M a y b e. But that's it, okay? 
> 
> Okay.

Reborn keeps his hand steady, the narrowing of his eyes the only outward sign of his irritation. After sending his student out of the room, Kobayashi seems content to ignore him, stretching his arms over his head and twisting his torso with a relieved sigh at the soft pops from his spine. With another jaw-cracking yawn, the exasperating mystery flits his eyes around the room again, glancing completely over Reborn's silently fuming presence, and landing on the bed a few feet to his left.   
  
Instead of getting up, Kobayashi leans over, long arms stretching to reach under the bed, grasping for something. A moment later he pulls out a small box filled with crumpled papers and magazines, a toy or two, and broken pencils. Irritation is joined by bewilderment as Reborn watches the teen rifle through the box with single-minded focus, and then annoyance when he pulls out a box of green tea Pocky with a satisfied grin.  
  
Reborn nearly vibrates with the force of his ire. Apparently, he hadn't been as thorough as he'd thought he'd been the first time he shamelessly rifled through Tsuna's things and helped himself to the hidden caches of snack food his dame-student had stashed around the room. The thought that he _missed_ something makes him angrier than the thought that the annoying mystery teen knew where it was, though that was a close second. (Perhaps even equally, because it means he had been in Tsuna's room before and often enough that he had his own hidden cache. Tsuna didn't like green tea flavored snacks.)  
  
Kobayashi shoves the box back under the bed with his foot, tearing open the package in his hands with relish. Returning to his slouch under the window, he meets Reborn's eyes and almost delicately snaps the biscuit stick in his mouth in half.   
  
Reborn twitches.  
  
"Temper," the teen rebukes lazily, ignoring the brand new smoking hole in the wall next to his head. His hooded eyes are sharp, however, and his statement comes with a hint of teeth.  
  
"Who are you," Reborn says again, adjusting his aim to make it clear that the next shot would not be a warning.  
  
"Hmm? Don't you know?" Kobayashi twists the half eaten stick between the fingers of one hand, propping his head on the other. The look he gives Reborn is as dry as his tone. "You've only been trying to spy me for nearly a week now." 'Trying' being the keyword, and it rankles somewhat that Kobayashi seems to be fully aware of his attempts.  
  
Three more biscuits are eaten while they stare at each other. Kobayashi is clearly stating that he's not willing to play Reborn's game with his silence, and Reborn is grudgingly impressed with his fortitude. Much older and hardened men have quailed under his gaze before, spilling their secrets without needing more of a threat than his reputation. Whether or not Kobayashi knows of it is uncertain, but the teen remains unmoved – or uncaring, as that is also likely.  
  
Reborn is beginning to realize, however, that his usual method of using intimidation to get his answers is not going to work in this case, so he allows Leon to change back into his true form and return to his favorite perch on the brim of his fedora. Kobayashi watches the transformation with undisguised fascination, head tilted and eyes narrowed, absently nibbling the end of another biscuit as he does so.  
  
"Well, that's new," Kobayashi mutters to himself, ignoring Reborn once again in favor of observing the small lizard. Leon stares back at him with unblinking eyes; the teen seems to take it as a challenge, and the two engage in some sort of staring contest.  
  
He uses the distraction as a chance to observe his mystery more closely. Kobayashi seems like a normal civilian on the surface, but Reborn's vast experience picks up things other people might miss. Despite his apparent nonchalance, there is a subtle tension in the line of his shoulders that reveals he's not as unaffected by Reborn as he seems. He's not unmarked, either; there are scars on his arms and what looks like words carved on the back of his hand. Kobayashi's earlier search under the bed had also revealed what looks like stab wounds and part of what could be an old gunshot on his torso. Something tells Reborn he's not unarmed, but his sharp eyes can't find any hint of a weapon.  
  
Reborn allows a small tendril of his Flame to curl outwards, probing Kobayashi's aura as softly as he can in search of the other's Flame. If he's Flame Active, along with those old wounds, it raises the likelihood of a Mafia connection; a person his age with Active Flames would never go unmolested for long by the underworld. It could also explain Reborn's inability to gather the information he desired. A decently powered Mist could easily confuse his bugs and mess with his cameras, but he'd have to be rather powerful to confuse Reborn himself. That would put him on the level of Viper of the Arcobaleno – or even above, as Viper had never been able to fool Reborn's senses for very long. _Certainly_ not for a full week.  
  
His search comes up with nothing, however. Kobayashi does not appear to have a Flame at all. There's definitely some sort of power there, the like of which Reborn has never felt before, but whatever it is, it isn't a Flame. Kobayashi feels as Flameless as any other civilian, and that just fuels Reborn's curiosity even more.  
  
"Did you find what you were looking for?" Kobayashi asks suddenly. His eyes haven't left Leon, but the corner of his mouth is quirked in a funny little smile – not quite mocking, but… knowing, almost.  
  
"No." Reborn glares darkly, allowing irritation to hide his surprise as the grin widens.   
  
"I'd be surprised if you did," Kobayashi says cheerfully. "Well," he amends, "maybe only a little."  
  
The bedroom door opens then, waylaying Reborn's (potentially violent) response. Tsuna enters backwards slowly, a service tray carefully balanced in his hands. With a soft rattling of china, he places the tray down, looking uneasily between the two of them and then blanching when he notices the new hole in his wall.  
  
" _Re-born_ ," he whines, glancing at his neighbor in half panic, half concern, wide eyes searching for evidence of a wound.  
  
"You're one hundred years too early to scold me, dame-Tsuna," Reborn says darkly. He launches himself into a flying kick, one of his usual methods of disciplining his reluctant student… and misses, as a tanned hand reaches forward, grabs the bottom of Tsuna's shirt, and pulls the boy to the floor. Tsuna falls with a surprised _oof_ , and sits dazed for a moment. Reborn narrows his eyes, but still manages to whack his student on the head with a Leon-fan on his way back to his seat.   
  
"Introduce me," he orders, ignoring Tsuna's pout.  
  
"Ah… Hari-san, this is my home tutor, Reborn," Tsuna says reluctantly, rubbing the top of his head. "Reborn, this is my neighbor, Kobayashi Hari."  
  
"Oh good, you remembered the milk this time," Kobayashi says, completely ignoring the introduction. He pours the tea into one of the three cups – a green one, whereas the other two are plain white, that has a small bit of milk in the bottom of it – a strong scent of mint filling the air as he does so. Tsuna's nose scrunches in distaste.  
  
"How can you drink it like that?" he complains, filling the other two cups and nudging the bowl of sugar cubes closer to his guest.  
  
"Shut up, it's delicious." Tsuna rolls his eyes at the deadpan remark, but his smile is fond. It sounds like a familiar argument to Reborn, and he wonders how long the two have actually known each other. Long enough for Kobayashi to have a "usual," at the very least, to have his own snacks in his student's room, for Nana to be aware of his eating habits…. There's too many questions and not enough answers for Reborn's comfort.  
  
"You seem rather close for being just neighbors," Reborn says, looking between them demandingly.   
  
"He wouldn't leave me alone," Kobayashi says impassively. Tsuna scratches his cheek with a finger, flushing in embarrassment.  
  
"It wasn't like that. I just thought you were interesting," he mutters in denial. "Hari-san moved in a few years ago. I met him when I hid in his yard from… uh, some kids." ("Bullies," Kobayashi coughs into his cup. Tsuna ignores him, though he does blush again.) "Anyway, he was my tutor before you came, so I guess that's why we seem close."  
  
Reborn stares. His mind snaps another puzzle piece into place, that being the contradiction between Tsuna's low, if decent, grades in school and the just above failing that they had been reported to be in his CEDEF file. They weren't nearly up to Reborn's perfectionist standards, but they hadn't been horrible either. Even his nickname, dame-Tsuna, had been said by his peers more as a habit that actual fact. It also explains why Nana hadn't hired Reborn immediately, as expected, but several days later instead.  
  
"He's also the school nurse for Nami-Middle," Tsuna adds almost as an aside.  
  
…What?  
  
—•—  
  
The house is bigger than he really needs it to be. It's meant more for a small established family or a newlywed couple just starting out than a single man and couple of house elves. Regardless, it's much better than the gloomy ancestral Black home, and the neighborhood is quiet, clean, and friendly. Harry feels more at home here on his first night than he ever did in all his years in the Gryffindor dormitory.  
  
Leaving Grimmauld has definitely been one of his better decisions. Even Kreacher, who has begun to show his years in recent months, seems more full of vigor if not cheer. Winky is definitely the happiest of all of them, humming and all but buzzing with joy as she pops about, rearranging this and cleaning that.   
  
The wards on the house have already been placed. While he didn't expect to have to need them for protection, he did need to make sure that anything magical was obscured from prying eyes. The wards available in Japan were much more advanced than the ones he is used to, Japanese magicals having a much higher requirement for secrecy; it was a small country with a large population, so they had wardsmithing down to a near art form. He had everything from obfuscation to pest control to mild muggle repellants, although as he was in an entirely muggle neighborhood those had been placed solely around the second level, which was where everything even slightly related to magic would be stored. Should he choose to, he could have company over and the wards emplaced would ensure that his company didn't get too curious about going upstairs or ask too many questions about Winky and Kreacher (whom he had ordered to stay out of sight should that come up anyway).  
  
Not that he expected to have much company, but better safe than sorry.  
  
He adjusts the newly hung certificate on the wall and steps back. Every time he looks at it he feels a rush of pride, in himself and his accomplishments. His degree was something he earned through years of hard work and dedication, and countless hours of sleep deprivation. Not a single person could claim it was undeserved or handed to him on a silver platter simply for his name. Best of all, it was a choice he made for himself – and that alone made it worth it.  
  
Now he has a title he could actually be proud of. Doctor Potter – or Kobayashi Sensei, considering – had a rather nice ring to it, really.  
  
While Kingsley and Headmistress McGonagall had been disappointed, Molly had cried tears of joy when he announced that he had enrolled in St. Mungo's advanced healing course, a fast paced study of the healing arts that was designed to eek out novice healers in the quickest way possible through the use of time turners and healer-regulated wit-sharpening and memory retention potions. It involved two years of accelerated learning, six months of which was at CMU, the Cambridge Magical University for the muggle-based courses, and a further year of apprentice studies under a Master Healer.   
  
His apprenticeship had been all but usurped by Poppy Pomfrey, who was a Master of Pediatric Healing, when the time came for him to seek out a Master to apprentice under. Harry had no objections to this; Madam Pomfrey had long held his respect, and (most importantly) his trust. Pediatrics had been his field of choice, and getting hands-on experience in a school full of children and teenagers with more hormones than common sense was far and above what any other Master had offered for the so-called _prestige_ of having the Man Who Conquered under their tutelage.  
  
(He very much doubted that McGonagall had not had a hand in that. She had been extraordinarily smug the entire year he spent at Hogwarts during his apprenticeship. The fact that she had 'just happened' to hire a part-time, semi-retired Auror to teach Defense that year, who 'just happened' to need an assistant teacher for the younger years, and that his schedule 'just happened' to have those specific blocks of time free, couldn't _possibly_ have anything to do with that, of course.)  
  
It also didn't hurt that aside from being his mentor, Madam Pomfrey had made a rather good therapist as well. His talks with her, and later McGonagall (and just the once with Dumbledore's portrait) had seen him through some rather rough nights there. It had been easier, perhaps, while he was still in the medical courses; long nights with more study than sleep had kept the worst of it at bay. But once he'd been in Hogwarts, where he didn't have to push himself so hard, where so many of his worst memories had taken place, his nightmares had come back with a vengeance.   
  
He would never be one hundred percent, and he could accept that now, but at least he was no longer so close to the edge of self-destruction. And he had come very, very close. Without his drive to advance, to learn all he could – without the promise of the freedom that awaited him after – he very likely would have fallen off of that precipice.  
  
In the end and with a shiny new Mastery under his belt, Harry said his goodbyes, packed up his life in England, and took the first portkey available to the Japanese Ministry of Magic. It was there he met up with Tanaka Akashi, an associate of Madam Pomfrey's, who set him up with a new identity and yet _another_ accelerated course in Japanese language, history, and culture; and eventually, a job as a school nurse in the middle school of a small, quiet town – which is exactly what he wanted.  
  
It was actually a relief to be able to introduce himself to his new boss and peers as Kobayashi Hari. Harry Potter may have been a famous figure and source of intrigue for the nosy and judgmental magicals of Britain, but Kobayashi Hari was simply an eccentric twenty-three year old foreigner with a medical degree who wanted a simple, quiet life in the middle of nowhere, half a world away from where he grew up. He was almost giddy with exhilaration for his successful escape from a world that had only ever taken from him without bothering to take notice of the harm it caused him personally nor ever placed his own hopes and desires in consideration to their own.  
  
Namimori is everything he never realized he had always wanted, and everything he knew he had needed. It was a fresh start. A new home, a new name, a new life, and a job waiting for him that he thinks he will actually enjoy.  
  
He almost couldn't wait.  
  
—  
  
Tsuna takes back anything good he ever said about summer break. Summer was a horrible, miserable time of year, and if it were up to him it wouldn't exist at all. At least at school he had a reprieve from his usual group of tormentors – several blessed hours of it – but during summer, when they had nothing better to do, it always invariably led back to this.  
  
This being Tsuna running through the streets of Namimori for either the safety of home or a good place to hide.   
  
He makes a sharp turn at the corner, nearly tripping from the effort, and speeds up again. One more block and he'd be home free. A desperate whine builds up in the back of his throat as the shouting and jeering of his pursers grow louder. They are much faster than he is, and even with his head start he wasn't likely to make it all the way home. He's _so close_ , too; it wasn't fair!  
  
His head whips back and forth, eyes questing for a place to hide out where they can't find him or least for long enough that they get bored searching and wander off for other pursuits. A certain house catches his attention and he realizes with a start that he recognizes it – or at least, the color of it. As he grows closer, his heart speeds up and hope blooms in his chest as he sees the house directly behind it on the next street. That was _his_ house. He skids to a stop in front of and has a wild thought. The house has been empty for months, and he hasn't heard of anyone moving in. Perhaps, if he cut through the yard and hopped the fence into his own….  
  
He hesitates, hopping back and forth on his feet, but a shout from (much too) close by decides him. Quickly, he slips through the unlocked gate and scurries around the back. He's so close to safety he can almost _taste_ it, and the thought has a buoying effect.  
  
Apparently not enough of one, however, as he jumps, hands reaching for the top of the wall and missing. He tries again, but only succeeds at scraping his hands and arms against the rough stone the wall is made of, and then his knee as the force of his jump trips him and causes him to fall into it. He stays crouched on the ground, eyes tearing up from pain and fear, clenching his small hands in the fabric of his shorts, the whine from before finally finding its escape in a plaintive, keening tone.  
  
One of the boys _had_ to have seen him enter the yard, and would tell the others, and then they would come in too, and he was cornered, so they'd catch him, and then beat him up again, all because he was _too short_ to reach the top of the wall! It's the fear that keeps him from bursting into wailing sobs (what if they _heard_ him, they would _definitely_ know where he was then!), but only just.  
  
"Hey. Brat."   
  
Tsuna shrieks, bullies be damned, at the flat voice that sounds from behind him. He turns so quickly he's nearly dizzy from it, his eyes wide in shock. There's a man standing in the open doorway of the house, with jade green eyes shadowed by dark bangs, arms crossed and lips turned down in a frown. Tsuna has the sinking feeling that the house is not as abandoned as he had first thought; judging by the furniture he can just see from further in the house, he's right.  
  
Tsuna remains there frozen, and flinches when the man takes a step forward. The man pauses at this and opens his mouth, but before he can say anything the shouting of his pursuers returns.  
  
"I saw him go in here! Dame-Tsuna's probably hiding back here like a little baby."  
  
"Yeah, we've got him now!"  
  
"Let's get 'im!"  
  
"So that's how it is," the man mutters, frown deepening into a dark scowl. He glances at Tsuna for a moment then seems to make a decision. "Go on inside" he says, nodding his head toward the open door. Despite the blank, angry look on his face, Tsuna can't help but feel reassured by the gentleness of his voice. "I'll take care of _them_."  
  
Tsuna has only an instant of indecision, but he wipes his face and stands, shuffling forward uncertainly towards the man and the possibility of safety. He looks back once, and the man meets his eyes with a soft, mischievous smile. Tsuna's eyes grow wide at it. No one, aside from his mother, had ever looked at him like that before; like he was worth protecting.  
  
"Don't worry. You're safe here."  
  
Half awed and completely assured by the promise, Tsuna nods back at him and goes into the house. That word had never felt truer.


End file.
